


/twin fantasy (face to face)

by Pearly_Pornography



Category: Metalocalypse
Genre: Depression, Emotional Abuse, Homophobia, Neglect, Self-Harm, Songfic, Suicidal Thoughts, Trans Male Character, Transphobia, Underage Drinking, Underage Drug Use, Underage Sex, Underage Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-11
Updated: 2018-05-31
Packaged: 2019-04-28 10:09:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 6,628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14447004
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pearly_Pornography/pseuds/Pearly_Pornography
Summary: A story about two brothers.





	1. My Boy

_My boy, we don't see each other much_

 

Click.

Play messages?

Click.

You have one new message.

Message one.

Beeeeeeep.

_"Hey, bro. Uh, 's been kinda lonely since yuh left home. I've been bored as shit. How's life? How's, uh, where did you even go... heh. Uh, how's it been? I got this really cool new vinyl, if yuh ever come back we should listen to it sometime._

_What else, uh... we gaht a dahg! I, uh, you're prolly gonna be pissed about that, 'cause I know you asked mom fer a dog and, uh, she said nah. But we finally gaht one, it's, uh, it's a Sain' Buhnard, I think? A big one. We named 'er Bonnie, like the cheese, bonnibel... ah, shit, that's called babybel, ain't it. Motherfucker... wh'evuh, man, she's in here right now. Takin' a nap. I'm, uh, I'm tryin' to find a part-time job, but it's kinda hard to squeeze one in beside high school. Oh, uh, also!_

_You left yuh liquor here. Iss mine now. It tastes like shit, still, I dunno how you drink this stuff. I get why smoking pot is fun, but like, this stuff tastes really bad. Maybe I just ain't feelin' it yet, I dunno dude. An', uh, I gaht a girlfriend! Her name's Macy. Like th' store? She hates when I say that._

_We, uh, we boned, it was pretty chill. I got really nervous. But now we're both part of the not-virgin club, hey! That's pretty sick!_

_Anyway, uh, you should call me back. I'm way more interested in wha'evuh you're doin', 'cause nothin' ever changes 'round here, y'know? Dad says I'm not allowed tuh call, so I'm doin' this super-sneaky while he's passed out on the fuckin' couch! Try 'n call me when he's not around... I got my hands on a mobile phone, so I can give yuh my numbuh. It looks like a fuckin' cool-ass brick!_

_So, uh, call me!_

_...'s Seth, by the w--"_

Beeeeeep.

No new messages.

_It'll take some time, but somewhere down the line, we won't be alone_


	2. Beach Life-In-Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What should I do? (Go to bed.)

_It should be called antidepression, as a friend of mine suggested_

 

"Play it again."

"No, Seth."

"Play iiiiit!"

"I already did! Eight times!"

"I'm gonna tell mahm!"

"Ugh..."

Pickles rolled his eyes, clutching the neck of his janky electric guitar. Why Seth needed to hear the riff to  _Come Sail Away_ over five-hundred fucking times was beyond his understanding. Seth stared intently as Pickles awkwardly plucked the strings. "I ain't that good at this."

"Yeh y'are."

"Of course you think so, you've never seen a real dude play guitahr."

"I've seen concerts on DVD."

"...Wh'ever..." Pickles grunted, tripping over a note or two. "Shit! Feck!"

"Yuh shouldn't say the f-word."

"Who even cares, 's jest words."

Seth blinked, awestruck. "...Whet. Whet're yeh starin' at."

"F..." Quietly. " _Fuck._ " Pickles blinked. Seth stared at him for approval.

"...'atta boy?"

Seth beamed.

"Fuuuuuuck!"

"Shsh, mahm's gonna hear yeh."  _And then she'll blame me for this._ For once, Pickles was at least comfortable with saying this was his fault. 

"Buh iss jus' words."

"Well yeah, but she still hates words sometimes."

"But she can read."

"Only some words. Yer killin' me here, Seth."

Seth blinked, poking the fret board, like a silent request to continue. Pickles sighed, resuming where he figured he'd left off. Seth stared, quietly. Eyes aglow with intrigue. God, he was so damn weird sometimes... "Are yeh jest watchin muh hands?"

"...Yeh."

"If yeh wanted me t' teach yeh to play, y'could'a said so."

"No, I don't wanna."

Pickles wrinkled his brow, but continued.

"I don't get you, man. Just like the way it looks?"

Seth didn't respond. His face was pressed against both palms, concentrated, like in deep thought. "If yer jest gonna lookit my hands, can I at least play a song that ain't  _Come Sail Away_." Pickles shuddered a bit for effect. Frankly, at this point hearing Dennis DeYoung's voice would definitely send him into a deep, trauma-induced coma/seizure/panic attack. "At this point you can prahb'ly play the whole thing without ever havin' held a guitar before."

"Hey, bro."

Pickles quirked a brow.

"Yeh?"

Seth's fingers reached forward. "Y'wanna hold i--" He soon realized that Seth wasn't reaching for the guitar, but rather, the long sleeve of his leather jacket. He tugged it down slightly, Pickles way too dumbstruck to do anything.

"Why ya got weird-lookin' thingies on yuh arm?"

Silence. At least in Pickles' brain. Nothing but sharp, burning static. "Looks like a bunch'a frisbees. Izzat a scab? Don't yuh boyfriend gaht a cat? You bein' scratched a laht? Are those scars? They look really weird. 's a weird cat."

"...Yeah."

He doesn't need to know. He's only a kid, that'd be... cruel. "'s lightning."

"You're bullshittin'." Seth snorted. He just said the  _shit word._

"It's my fuckin' man's lightnin', dood, don't make funna my man's lightnin'."

"Whatever, dood, 's the fuckin' cat."

Pickles, were he alone, would have breathed a sigh of relief. "Okay, different song, uh..." He swallowed. "... _Heavy Metal Poisonin'_."

"No. No more Styx, someone else, gahdammit."

Nice save there. bucko.

_Because it's not the sadness that hurts you, it's the brain's reaction against it_


	3. Stop Smoking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> [acoustic guitar riff]

_Stop smoking, we love you_

 

The glimmering sparks from the lighter, even stronger than the flashing on the TV. Some awful sitcom, probably.  _Brady Bunch_ , or some shit. He kept the light low. It was more atmospheric that way, probably. Like some arthouse shit. 

Pickles loved these things. Seth didn't really get why. He'd seen way too many PSAs on TV about the dangers of drugs, smoking, alcohol and what have you. And why the heck did Peewee Herman know what crack was, anyway? That just seemed a little silly, didn't it? All kinds of silly. Seth had never been  _peer pressured_ like on TV, nobody was telling him he had to inject weeds or whatever to be cool, real life wasn't like that. 

In fact, it felt like a lot of his life was decided for him. Like mom and dad were backseat driving his existence. It was kinda boring.

The small fire flickered. It connected with the pale tip of a cigarette.

Apparently these things could give you lung cancer, if you smoked enough of them. Which Seth figured he wouldn't. This would be a one, maybe two-time thing, unless it ended up being really, really fun or some shit. He'd fucked with weed before, Pickles was cool with that, but he said  _no touchin' my smokes, I swear to gahd._

Authority was a sham, and Seth could smoke whatever he fucking wanted. He wasn't afraid to die from something so minuscule.

At this age, with his privilege, did he have a right to be so cynical? After all, in the grand scheme of the universe, he was practically born yesterday. But suburbs were, arguably, as dangerous as shitheap cities like Detroit. Just in a much more subtle way. Nobody fights in the suburbs, at least, not overtly. Instead they spread subconscious, life-destroying rumors, instill fear in one another, do things behind closed doors that one would dare not name. In the suburbs, nobody comes to kill you. They merely plant a seed of doubt and wait for you to kill yourself.

Then again, Seth had never  _been_ to a shitheap city like Detroit.

So he couldn't really say.

The nub of the cigarette ignited, its virgin tip turning black as coal. It flared, and spewed ribbons of grey smoke into the open air, curling and contracting like mating snakes. The spectacle was always the best part. Seth found everyone looked way, way cooler with a cigarette. Pickles' current boyfriend Archie looked like a total dildo without a cig in hand. Motherfucker slicked back his hair like he was in an off-Broadway production of  _Grease_ or some shit. Snrk. 

He wished these things came with instructions, but since smokes  _allegedly_ did lung damage, he figured he had to... uh... breathe it. Would it get stuck in his throat? Maybe if he lodged it between two fingers like they did on TV. Yeah... yeah! He flicked the television off for a moment to see his own reflection. He looked so fucking cool.

The orange end sat between his lips. And he took a deep br--

_Oh god holy shit._

He turned the TV back on, turned up the volume so he could somehow conceal all the fucking coughing. It burned, holy god. Tears and snot and spit were all squeezed out, like he was a chubby, freckled toothpaste tube. It all collected in big, angry clouds that spewed from his mouth and nose.  _Those ads weren't fuckin' kidding._

He took a moment. Heaved. Sucked in fresh air, desperately, like a fish.

It burned.

Coming down from the pain, his deflated lungs began to once again fill with air as he laid facedown on the floor. He had a decision to make, to either snuff out the cigarette and move on, or to take another breath. He blinked. He'd never done this. He'd never... he'd never really  _made a decision_ before, huh. He shuddered, his esophagus singed to its very core, the young Seth stood at a crossroad, and he could only take one path. The left one, normal. The right one, covered in ashes, dust and bones. He knew that, on any other day, his mother and father would guide him to the left. But for once, they were not there to make him do anything.

Feeling the way each layer of dermis in his neck burned, and the way his eyes stung, and the way his tongue tingled, he knew the answer.

Surrounded by only the sound of the TV, he took another puff.

 

_And we don't want you to die, we don't want you to die_


	4. Sober to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Good stories are bad lives,  
> Good stories are bad lives

_What if it'll always be this way, not comforted by anything you say_

 

Dear Tony,

 

It's nice to be writing to you. Having a pen pal is pretty sweet, especially one from England. Are people actually classier over there, or is that just a stereotype?

Since you asked, I enjoy a lot of random stuff, I guess. I'm into music. Songwriting. I play a lot of instruments because I keep hoping my mom will be into it, but she can't be fucking bothered, apparently. I remember you said you can play. That's pretty cool. I've always wanted to be in a band, but nobody else here seems into it except my brother.

Ugh, I hope you don't mind if I vent for a moment. Because holy shit, it's been kind of a fucking mess over here. My parents want me out of this house as soon as possible, because apparently I'm a bad influence on my brother. He's been drinking a lot recently, and he's like, 16 now, I think? It's kind of scary, since he's really short and his body doesn't handle it too well, and of course it's my responsibility to keep him from choking on his own vomit. At this point, I don't even want to.

That probably sounds fucked up, but I seriously think he hates my guts. Mom and dad kinda rose him that way, I guess. 

Dad's been drinking a lot too, anyway. So has mom. Everyone in this house is an alcoholic, so I dunno why it's my fault. Apparently he "idolizes" me or some shit. If he thought I was that great, he'd ask before stealing my shit.

I'm moving out soon, because his dumb ass outed me in school. He says it was an accident, but I feel like you have to draw a line somewhere, right? Like, you can only fuck up so many times before it stops being acceptable. It's not like he's a kid anymore, anyway, I didn't get to "oopsie" my way outta everything at 16. I guess it's because, according to society or whatever, I'm either the tranny or the bull-dyke on any occasion, so every bad thing related to me is automatically my fault.

I feel kinda shitty that I'm dumping this on you all at once. We like, just started talking a week ago or something. Thank god I don't have to physically write you, or the damn thing would take fucking centuries to get to you. Praise Eudora!

You should tell me about your life instead! Hit me back as soon as you can.

-Pickles

 

Dear Dillon

 

It's nice hearing from you. Praise Eudora, indeed.

For the record, people over here are probably just as nasty as they are over there. Though I will say, I went to New York City several years ago, and the nonlethal space between the curb and the actual cars was huge. If I stuck my neck out that far in London, I'd have my brains splattered all over the road.

I play bass guitar. Currently I'm not in a band, but I'm thinking of heading to America soon in search. It's not that there's no music worth pissing over in England or anything, but after awhile the same old androgynous weirdos with pierced nips and what have you gets a bit old. Even if it's similar in the west, I wouldn't mind a few new experiences beneath my studded belt. Maybe I'll come and visit you. Where did you say you lived? Tomahawk? I guess you're moving soon, so where you are now doesn't really matter, does it.

I'm sorry about your family situation. As the youngest child of a similarly arsefucked family, I do find myself hitting the bottle more often than a person my age should be doing. The drinking age here is lower, certainly, but I'm also still in school until the summer, and doing math on a hangover is rough. But I'm comfortable with telling you that I'm gay, and I won't judge you for anything, unless it's something completely fucked, like that you enjoy having sex with dead antelopes while wearing one of those Disney mascot costumes, or something. That'd be really fucking weird and I'd totally judge you for that, but being a bloke with a cunt isn't anything to shit yourself about.

Regardless, I am always at least partially drunk enough to carry half your burden on my shoulders. I'm drunk right now, even.

And my life isn't interesting, just four older brothers, absent parents, the usual sob-story. I've also got a dog with three legs, he's basically the one member of my family I don't hate. His name is Ozzy. I couldn't figure out how to get this photo of him to you, so I sent it through physical mail, which means it'll get there way after this letter does. Praise Eudora?

Anyway, write back when you aren't too busy.

Sincerely, Antonio

 

Dear Tony

 

I might not write back for a really long time. I might also not get your dog picture. My parents want me out, now, unless I say I'm a girl, which I am not. So this'll be the last email you'll get in awhile while I'm getting my shit together. My cell number is [REDACTED], and if you do come over here, maybe we can hang out sometime. (I confess I stole my mom's credit card. Don't tell anyone.)

Sorry for the short letter.

-Pickles

 

_We were wrecks before we crashed into each other_


	5. Nervous Young Inhumans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So let's meet up in uncanny valley

_I don't believe in evil. I think that evil is an idea created by others to avoid dealing with their own nature._

 

Church was the worst shit. Too much incense, and too much talking. Sermons seemed to last like, 800 years, and usually it was just some old shit talking about how a bar of soap reminded him of the Lord or something. Mom was insanely adamant about going, though she didn't even make Seth stand up or kneel or sit when they were supposed to. 

The service was over, and Pickles wanted to stay inside, lying and saying that he was  _doing some extra prayer_. His mother's face lit up when he said that, and she told him they'd be waiting outside for him. In reality, he was simply reclining on the plush, red seats with a cigarette. The stained glass made glimmering fractals across his face, with each medieval Jesus picture seeming to stare down at him, with eyes of judgement.

The opening of the church doors broke him from his stupor for a moment. Tiny footprints filled the echoing hall.

"Hey dood." Seth was shuffling past him. 

"Seth, what're yeh--"

"Goin' to the confessional. Personal stuff."

Pickles rose an eyebrow. Seth quietly took a drag from his cigarette, coughing a bit with his mouth tightly closed. "See..." Wheeze. "See you innuh minute. Go outside so yuh can't hear meeeeee." His little dress shoes clapped against the long, ornate rug that ran between the pews. He ran to the head priest, a man who was clearly too preoccupied to complain about Pickles' presence. Pickles pinched out the end of the cigarette regardless, tucking it beneath his leg and hissing at the pain in his fingertips.

A quiet exchange went on. One too soft for Pickles to hear. It was weird, he'd never really seen Seth go into the confessional. He figured the little bastard believed himself 100% free of any bad. Aside from being a pathological liar and compulsive eater-of-all-the-food-in-the-fridge, Pickles couldn't really think of anything openly wrong with the kid.

The door to the confessional shut with a heavy  _thunk_ , and Pickles made his way, silently. Just a little too close. Something about this seemed weird. No, scratch that,  _everything_ about this seemed weird. He pressed his pierced ear to its side, hearing a bit of shuffling within its quarters. No doubt, it was Seth scuffing his nice shoes on the old, splintering wood. Mom had replaced his church shoes so many times Pickles lost count. Pickles only ever wore his casual clothes. He was over wearing dresses and skirts at this point.

"Hey. Hi priest."

"Feel free to call me Father James."

"Right." Pickles sighed, a soft one through his nose. Seth sucked at remembering people's names. "I have a confession. I mean, like, not really, I just need help wit' somethin', and--"

"I am always willing to give you guidance."

"Well, uh. There's this kid I like in my class, his name's, uhhh..." Seth snapped his fingers a few times, in an attempt to jog his memory. "Dirk! Dirk was 'is name."

"Perhaps try talking to him. The only way to strike a friendship is--"

"No, I mean, uh." Pickles felt his nerves tightening. "I don't mean like, friends, I mean like... I wanna kiss 'im and stuff." Another leaf of innocence, snipped off the stem from which his brother grew.  _You're not supposed to say shit like that, kid, you know everyone here hates gay people! Fuck!_

"Well you know you can't do that."

"I mean I know he's Jewish but I think he's willin' to marry outside the--"

"It's because you're both men. The bible states that a man may not lie with another man as he would a woman."

"Huhwha..." He blinked. "Why naht?"

"It's a sin. Sodomites go to Hell..."

Pickles stood, and knocked on the door. "We're busy right now."

"Seth, mahm says it's time t' go home."

"You weren't listenin', were you?" It was somewhat rare, hearing Seth with air caught in his throat, like he was going to cry. 

"Nah, I ain't heard nuthin'."

Better to lie than to be forced into explaining himself. Surely, his father would be informed, and that'd be bad for everyone. Seth shuffled out, fingers gripping the cloth of his clean-pressed trousers, eyes turned downwards.

"I think I'm sick. Wanna go home."

"Alreet kiddo."

"I ain't a kid, I'm only two years younger'n you!"

"Kay, w'ever."

It's better to delay the curse than to let it be.

 

_...Is this thing on?_


	6. Bodys

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everybody's swinging their hips, everybody's giving the waitress tips

_I have enough trouble controlling my own limbs, stealing alcohol from our parents & grandparents_

 

Pickles was known for two things in Tomahawk. To his enemies, of which there were many, he was the resident tranny and/or bull-dyke with no redeeming qualities aside from a presumably tight snatch. To his friends, of which there were few, he was the god of throwing parties.

Molly and Calvert took "couples vacations" way too often. Most likely, it was to spite Pickles by leaving Seth in his care. But at some point or another, Seth was finally old enough to be left the fuck alone for ten goddamn seconds. Pickles was nearing the road to the unknown, though he didn't know it yet. At age 17 he was dangerously carefree. He liked it that way. Live fast, die young, make a pretty corpse, and what have you. So on these special weekends, he'd get his own little revenge.

He'd take over the basement, not turn down the volume, keep Seth the fuck out, and have himself a serious party.

As serious as they could get, with such a small friend group.

But this weekend was different. Pickles' best friend, Parker, had gotten connected with  _one of the most popular girls in their high school_ and convinced her to get people into this party. God, he was such a cool fucking guy. Pickles' little friend group went on a drug-buying, booze-stealing, wallet-filching binge until their fake IDs were probably gonna break in half in preparation for this fucking party. Parker also, very politely, requested people make some attempt to bring their own goods. They painstakingly put together a mixtape that contained hits, but hits that Pickles didn't completely hate, and it took the whole week.

"No comin' to the first floor."

"Wuh? A-are you serious? You usually only have like, five people."

"Naht tonight."

Seth pouted, but made himself some level of comfortable in his twin-size bed, eyebrows furrowed as he read the funny pages from last week. "See yuh later, dood." Seth only grunted in response.

Pickles' crew sat in anticipation for the guests, crowded together on his couch with popcorn and booze in hand. The first knock nearly sent Pickles into a tailspin. Amber Warwick (not to be confused with Seth's future wife, Amber Tenzing) was there, with her blonde hair, hung up in a high ponytail, sweat dabbed against her body. Probably returning from cheer practice. God, she had sweet tits and a horrible personality. Her nose wrinkled.

"Mary? The hell are you doin' 'ere?"

"Dillon." He squinted. "And it's my house."

"Ugh! Seriously? Parker told me this was his party."

Well, sometimes you gotta tell a few lies to make shit happen, huh.

"He's  _here_ , so."

"Move." Pickles shifted to the side, and Amber sashayed her way into his home.

"Where's the fecking drinks?"

"Everywhere. We have the whole first floor  _and_ the basement at our disposal."

"Thanks, hon."

She curled a pink lip at him in a pouty grin. Were she not such an insufferable bitch, Pickles would eat her like a vanilla cupcake. Another knock, this one answered by Alex. The only Asian boy in Pickles' grade, he thought. It always slipped his mind how big Asia was, so theoretically, Vladimir was Asian too, wasn't he. (Not that Vlad was coming or anything, nobody was strong-willed enough to challenge him to beer pong.) Regardless, Alex was a total geek, and nearly scared more chicks off.

"Sahrry, sahrry. Come on in." Pickles managed to reel the shorter boy in before he began talking about Star Trek and/or humping someone's leg. (Meeting a biological dude who was shorter than him was kind of an ego boost.) Harriet from band came along, too. She had her "Tomahawk High Pride" sweater on and everything, not to mention her nasty-ass headgear. Cheer girls kept her around to basically make themselves feel better, and look better. She had a side lisp. Much to the chagrin of pervy teachers everywhere, she was also the first girl in his grade to turn 18.

"Howdy!" Ugh. She spat on him.

"Hi, Harriet." Alex gave her a sheepish wave.  _Christ, they belonged together._ "And others."

"Git fecked, loser." The other girls shuffled off, and Harriet followed behind them like a lost doggie. Football players showed up too, not long after. They weren't shy about giving Pickles a firm smack on the ass, to boot.

"If you weren't a dyke, I'd tooootally feck you."

"Well that means you're gay, so you guys should just feck eachother."

 _Heathers_ really was accurate to life, huh. Parker stepped up next to him, holding a paper cup. One of those small ones with the blue and purple crayon-looking pattern on it. He always wore sunglasses, which Pickles never really understood. Usually blind people did that, which already made no sense in Pickles' head, but Parker was only colorblind. Did that make white light more white? Crazy.

"I'm likin' the turnout. These guys are still assholes though." Pickles snorted. Parker nodded, sagely.

"Eeyup." 

God, Parker's southern accent was smooth like butter. No wonder he was the only member of Pickles' squad with any sexual clout.

The one shitty lightbulb in his basement was enough to light the drinking masses, and Pickles warred with his cassette player trying to find a good song, then finally resting on Madonna's  _Like a Prayer_. Pickles wanted to lose his virginity to this song, seriously. With a bottle of tequila in hand, he opted to drown himself tonight, surrounded by friends and enemies alike. 

"Did you hear?" Pickles' other other other friend sat by him. Ingrid, the only girl he chilled with, probably because she was dumb and Swedish and had no idea what was happening at any given time. She was clearly drunk. "Alex... getting handjob."

"Woooah, really?"

"...No."

She burst into wild laughter, cheeks red. The final member of his group, Drew, threw a sweater onto her.

"Yer completely smashed."

"Penis."

Pickles was drunk enough to laugh too, they both laughed at all kinds of nothing. "Have you seen Little Mermaid, Pickle?"

"Ehh, yeah, sure."

"...Where ams Ariel vagina?"

Another bout of laughter. Stupid, stupid laughter. "Hey, whats happenins over deres?"

Pickles blinked, taking a puff from the bong he was holding, which he'd built from a mannequin head. (He affectionately called it the Brain Bong.) He looked where Ingrid was pointing, to find two people... consummating their love, clearly.

"Woah, Harriet's gittin' some."

Even through his blurry vision, he could see that grody, brace-lined grin through the now-bent wires on her headgear. Whoever was eating her out, he didn't recognize. "'s'at someone Parker invited?"

"Does I looks like Parker to yous."

"...Fair point." A snort. "He's prahbly gonna regret it tomorrow."

Another hit from the Brain Bong. "'s nunna my business anyway."  _Like a Prayer_ faded out.

 

In short, that's how Seth lost his virginity. (And Harriet, for that matter, lost hers as well.)

Because, like everything else, this story was always about him.

 

_There's no devil on one shoulder and angel on the other, they're just two normal people_


	7. Cute Thing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> God, give me Frank Ocean's voice and James Brown's stage presence...

_I would sleep naked, next to you, naked. I am love. I am love._

 

Click.

Play messages?

Click.

You have one new message.

Message one.

Beeeeeeep.

_"Hey bro! 's Seth again. I guess- I dunno, you might'a gotten a call, that I lied about the whole 'being a virgin' thing... turns out Macy was Harriet's sister. She got real pissed, heh. Dumped me. An', uh, I guess I didn't tell yuh the first time 'cause, uh, I wasn't s'posed tuh be at that party at all... Anyway, whatever, I don' care, don' need a girlfriend to live. You ain't never had one, an' lookit you. Successful. Free. Wow, that was pretentious. Man. Uh, I'm sorry._

_Uh, I didn't get into college- hol' on._

_Yeah?! Ma, shuddup, I'm onna phone!... 's just a friend! Jesus!_

_...Sahrry fer takin' the lords name in vain, ma. But I mean, Jesus ain't even the lord, he's the lord's s-- okay, okay. Sahrry._

_Anyway, like I was sayin', I din't get into college. Nowhere I applied would take me, which I guess is fair, those fuckin SATs make no goddamn sense. More like S-Gay-Ts. Y'know when I took one of 'em, this guy straight-up pissed himself, like, across'a table from me? I hadda fuckin' pull my shoes up onto my chair. Goddamn. You'd think they'd let ya take a piss._

_I bet you could'a gotten in! Stuff prolly wasn't even that hard. I uh, I wouldn't wanna go to college, anyway. I mean I'd love to smoke pot an' have an orgy an' stuff, but I don't wanna go nowhere._

_'m scared._

_But, uh, I'm lookin' fer a part-time job. You're prob'ly busy too, but uh... try'n call me back!_

_I wanna try and find another girlfriend this year._

_Or a b... ah, shit. Nevermind."_

Beeeeeep.

No new messages.

 

_Like an excommunicated priest casting demons asked one what its name was_


	8. High to Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And this wallpaper, keeps goin' around the room, goin' around the room, and I follow it around the room...

_Keep smoking, I love you, keep smoking, I still love you..._

 

The floor was his home now. 

It was dark, but not dark enough to hide. Rather, just a low moonlight, hanging over his greasy, sweat-dripping hair. He laid on the floor, vodka in hand and stomach hanging out. He felt hideous and gross. That always seemed to follow with molly, and alcohol only made it worse. It was hot and gross. His eyes were heavy.

Light footsteps patted the ground, like the paws of a cat. They boomed in Pickles' broken ears.

A nosy neighbor? A stranger? Death himself?

No, worse. His younger brother.

His silhouette hung in the darkness, looming over him, despite the meager stature of young Seth. He shuffled closer, closer. Closer still. Like a monster in the dead of night, prepared to consume any living thing that stood before him. Pickles couldn't move, no matter how hard he willed his limbs to shake, they barely so much as trembled. His mouth hung open, slack, as if the hinges in his face were unscrewed. Seth stood over him. His hazel eyes were so, so beautiful.

"Hey bro."

His voice was low. Mom and dad were asleep by now. Pickles' whole face felt loose.

"Saff..."

Seth ignored his attempt at a plea. His hand reached, and it reached, for the bottle Pickles held.

His mind was racing. Screaming. If he could, he would grab Seth's hand, he'd scream for him not to, even if it'd wake up the entire neighborhood. Even if he'd get in trouble. Seeing himself fall apart was one thing, but seeing his younger brother, the kid he'd seen with chubby cheeks and a poor comprehension of the English language at age 2, become another branch in a dying family tree, was all different. He'd cry. He was crying. But only because his eyes couldn't seem to keep the tears in.

"Saffpleahs..."

Seth quirked a brow.

"What's up wit' you? S'it the drugs? 's rough."

The most he could do was hold on tight, onto the glass. His sweaty palm-skin clung to the bottle. Seth tugged at the neck. "Gimme."

"Nho."

His brow furrowed.

"Gimme!"

"Nho!" Pickles attempted to work up as much energy as he possibly could, but it just sounded pathetic. Seth, with his lower lip curled, stamped down on Pickles' arm.  _Hard._ Pickles howled, only for a moment, as Seth had covered his mouth.

"You're gonna wake up mom 'n dad, dipshit! Fuck you doing?!"

"Don't,"

"God, you're so  _weird!"_

Seth grunted, gnawing the cap back off. He took a long drink, and wrinkled his nose. "You just gonna lay here all night? You smell like puke. Take a goddamn bath." Another sip. Pickles knew Seth gained the teensiest bit of pleasure being a dick to him. Probably because the poor kid had nothing else under control in his fucking life. He shuffled away, taking a long swig. In the distance, Pickles could hear him spit, and mumble,  _"Gross!"_

Pickles laid on the floor. The walls curled together at the apex of the world, where the sun gripped the planets, where Mount Everest touched the stars. An endless corkscrew. His stomach hurt. He'd pissed himself. Goddamnit, goddamnit, goddamnit.

Here's to knowing his whole family would one day lay on the floor and feel the same way.

_But I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die! I don't wanna die!_


	9. Famous Prophets (Stars)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We gotta go back. We gotta go ba-a-a-ack.

_Apologies to future mes and yous, but I can't help feeling like we're through_

 

The handles of Pickles' motorcycle twisted as he barreled down the highway, with only a backpack full of clothes and posters. The only thing he could think about was the last exchange he had in the house he grew up. 

"You just gonna leave?"

Seth's hands were wedged in the pockets of his pants.

"Yeah."

And he pressed on the gas, and zoomed away.

He wasn't sure why he didn't wait for something. He didn't want Seth to try and convince him to stay. That'd be stupid, and kind of depressing, and he really just wanted to leave it all without any trouble. What would he possibly say to change anything?

Pickles ran down a few hypotheticals.

Number one. Seth would wrinkle his nose.

"Fine, I never liked you anyway!"

He'd spit, and shuffle back inside. Number one and a half was the same, except in this scenario, Seth clearly didn't mean it.

Number two. Seth ran over and grabbed his hand, probably in tears, begging him not to go. His big green eyes glimmered, full of salt water, spitting an ocean. In scenario two, Pickles would hold him, and stay. In two and a half, he'd apologize and disappear into the sunset.

Number three, they had a heart-to-heart. Seth set him free, and bid him good luck. Maybe even gave him a dollar or two for his journey.

Four, he told mom, and mom said not to worry. Not to speak to him. And she'd tug Seth inside, giving him half a second to look back.

Five, he begged Pickles to let him come with. Begged, pleaded, sniveled, groveled, no matter what, Pickles said no. His refusal drove his baby brother to tears, he threw a tantrum, Pickles watched in silence. When it all failed to reap any response, Seth finally let Pickles go.

Six. Instead of asking, Seth simply mounted the back of the motorcycle, and said, proudly,

"I'm comin' with."

No amount of convincing could make the kid back down. Seth became his travel buddy. His moral support. Like a mascot.

Seven, Seth never came out for him to begin with. Eight, Seth didn't even know he was leaving until he'd already crossed through to another state. Nine, Seth was never even born. Ten, the world didn't exist at all.

Pickles stared into the horizon, wind tying and untying knots in his red hair. None of ten things happened. None of one-million things happened. There were infinite scenarios, in a world of infinite outcomes, and Pickles had taken the coward's way out.

What if things had all been different? If Pickles had gotten to design his future, freehand. If he'd been a girl named Mary, who never drank, or did drugs, and always got her homework in on time. A girl with a stupid little brother, and two parents who loved her. Raised firm, but well. And then she'd get a boyfriend, and he'd go to college. She'd stay at home, and raise their children after they got married. Then those children would be raised the same way she was, and they'd raise their kids the same. He'd be another node in the roots of a manchineel tree growing at the middlemost point of the world. A tree so toxic that even standing near it makes one's lungs swell.

But none of that happened. Instead Pickles was the fruit that fell and split, so nobody would make the mistake of touching it. And Seth still swung, gravid with seeds, waiting for some poor idiot to take a bite without even knowing he was deadly.

And that was why Pickles ran away. Out of all of those outcomes, he took the one that would leave the least poison in his veins. And yet, it still stung.

_The ripping of the tape hurts my ears. In my years, I have never seen anyone quit quite like you._


	10. Twin Fantasy (Those Boys)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When (I) you come back, (you'll) I'll still be here.  
> When (you) I come back, (I'll) you'll still be here.

_They were connected at the back of the head, they had a conduit, their minds were the same_

_(We were connected at the back of the head, we had a conduit, their minds were the same)_

 

Click.

Play messages?

Click.

You have ten plus new messages.

Message one.

Beeeeeeep.

_"Hey, sorry I've been busy. We can go on a date when I'm back. I'll be busy. I'm busy."_

Beeeeeeep.

Message two.

_"Hey man. I uh. I jest wanted t' say I'm sahrry. About, uh, you know. That._

_Amber told me ya haven't left yer room, in like, a week? I dunno. Call me back if you're naht busy."_

Beeeeeeep.

Message three.

_"Hi. Again. I know it's only been like two days since I last called, but yer wife seems pissed. And, uh, apparently I need to tell yeh this. Whatever. Bye."_

Beeeeeeep.

Message four.

_"You can't jest keep leavin' me on read, 's fuckin' ridiculous. Call me back."_

Beeeeeeep.

Message five.

_"Seth, this is yer mother! Thanksgiving is soon, are you planning on coming? Ask yer sister if she's willing to show up. I know she hates me for parenting her like a normal goddamn person, but maybe we can have a mature conversation where she doesn't tell me to go... eff myself. But I know you're a lahng distance. Call if you're naht comin'. Or if y'are, I need to make a placecard for ya. Also jest to  talk! Love you!"_

Beeeeeeep.

Message six.

_"Could you tell mahm to leave me alone. Also call me. Are you dead?"_

Beeeeeeep.

Message seven.

_"Hi! Thisch isch William Murderfasche. You borrowed my copy of Schalo and I want it back, I'm not going all the way to Auschtria or whatever to come get it. It- It'sch Auschtralia? There'sch a differensche? Whatever! Gimme my movie!"_

Beeeeeeep.

Message eight.

_"Hello, this is Abigail Remeltindrinc. I just need some paperwork... like, a few months' worth... of paperwork. Emailed to me. It's kind of important. You're managing an entire branch of the seventh largest economic power in the world, cut the bullshit already and do your job... Thanks."_

Beeeeeeep.

Message nine.

_"Seth, this is yer mother! You still haven't RSVPed for our Thanksgiving party. Mary already said no, but you don't need to feel pressured by her decision. I know you two are close, for whatever reason. Call me."_

 

 

Beeeeeeep.

Message ten.

_"Are you okay? I know... you know. But it's been over a month since I heard from yeh, and usually you always leave messages. I haven't even seen you call, and Amber keeps sayin' she don't know anythin'. I'm sahrry there wasn't a funeral. It was complicated. I think you should- well, okay, I don't care if you come down to Mordhaus, but Charles and my therapist and Abigail all say yeh should. I mean, I don't even know if yer home, but... I dunno. Send me a text."_

Beeeeeeep.

Message elev--

(It was around that moment, he dumped a bottle of whiskey on the phone, and went back to bed.)

_...This ain't the end, we'll see them again._

_(This is the end of the song, and it is just a song. It's a version of me and you that can exist outside of everything else, and if it is just a fantasy, then anything can happen from here. The contract is up, the names have been changed. So pour one out, whoever you are. These are only lyrics now.)_


End file.
